


His Game

by vtn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-11
Updated: 2010-08-11
Packaged: 2017-11-17 07:32:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/549122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vtn/pseuds/vtn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To Jim Moriarty, Sherlock and John are just playthings.  Alternate, PWP-ish coda for 1x03, The Great Game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Game

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a gift for @[feeraa](https://twitter.com/feeraa), a friend of my friend Mat's, who wanted "some filthy Holmes / Moriarty fanfiction" after she saw The Great Game. Mat knew just where to forward that inquiry.

"Hel- _lo_  sexy," says Jim Moriarty, which actually manages to be about a hundred times more disturbing than when the woman on the phone with a bomb strapped to her chest said it, and that is saying something. The corner of his mouth is turned up in a smile and his teeth, abnormally white for someone accustomed to British dentistry, are showing there when he talks. He smoothes down the front of his well-fitted suit, where there was no crease or wrinkle.   
  
"I am," he goes on, " _So_  glad to see you again, especially now that we can be completely honest with one another. You look even better than in your pictures, you know" He gets close, into Sherlock's personal space, puts his carefully-trimmed left pointer fingernail on Sherlock's cheek, traces from his cheekbone to his jaw.   
  
"What pictures," says Sherlock, not bothering to pitch the end of his question up—Moriarty isn't worth the effort. "I never look good in pictures."  
  
"Oh, the usual." Moriarty cups Sherlock's cheek in his clammy palm. He's sweating, nervous from the energy of his victory. And may have Reynaud's Syndrome (entirely benign, no known medical cure). His calluses suggest he holds his pen oddly between his fingers. "CCTV, my friend's mobile phone, oh, Facebook—I do love Facebook—"  
  
"I hate Facebook," says Sherlock. He turns to look at John, who is shaking and wide-eyed, red laser sight dancing on his lip. He looks away.  
  
"Someday I'll show you my Farmville," Moriarty says, rhotacizing his R noticeably. "I've got hundreds of acres, hundreds."  
  
"Stop doing that," says Sherlock.   
  
"What?"  
  
"With the accents. It's distracting."  
  
"No," says Moriarty. He smiles briefly, like an overexcited child who can't help it. "I like your voice," he says.  
  
"You don't make any sense," says Sherlock. Moriarty lays his head on Sherlock's chest. There is not even a speck of dandruff at the roots of his hair, which he colors. Sherlock tries to back away, but he's backed into a wall. And more importantly, they'll shoot John.  
  
"Please say something in that voice of yours," says Moriarty against Sherlock's jacket. Sherlock doesn't. "Oh, please do," he says, his tone not changing. "I could kill your boyfriend, and you wouldn't be happy then. Oh—he is your boyfriend, isn't he? I mean, you have to admit, you even knew what brand of underwear a gay man favors..." Sherlock looks over at John, who to his credit is still holding his poker face, seemingly unaffected by this comment. Military men. Bless them. "Now, the voice, please."  
  
"I don't know what you want me to—"  
  
"Oh yes! That's wonderful, wonderful. That bass voice." Moriarty even seems to shiver a little. "You are just a perfect specimen."  
  
"Of what?"  
  
"Humanity," says Moriarty a little darkly.   
  
"No I'm not," says Sherlock.  
  
"Listen," says Moriarty. "I was just wondering if you would mind doing me a small favor, if it isn't any trouble."   
  
"It is."  
  
"Well, well, you say it's trouble, I say it's either that or I get my friend to shoot Johnny-boy, so," and he pouts mockingly, "I suppose it really mustn't be too much trouble." Moriarty strokes Sherlock's face again with one of those awful, cold hands. "I think you should kiss me." Why, though, why? What's a kiss got to do with anything? He could have put poison on his lips but no, he already said he doesn't want Sherlock dead and besides that his lips are bare. Is Moriarty attracted to him?   
  
"I—" Moriarty crashes their lips together. His tongue is like his hands: lifeless and cold, slipping between Sherlock's like leftovers. Not that Sherlock ever understood or enjoyed kissing. The health risks are significant—frequently exaggerated, but significant. Moriarty's hand is on Sherlock's cheek again, and pushing them closer together. His other hand is smoothing down the top of Sherlock's head, almost the same way Sherlock's mother and father once did when he was a very small child.   
  
"Yes," says Moriarty, so close to Sherlock that the tips of their noses are pressing together. Sherlock wants to vomit. He doesn't let people get this close to him. Mrs. Hudson he tolerates. John Watson— "Yes," says Moriarty again. "Oh, yes!" Moriarty presses his lips hard against Sherlock's, while Sherlock grinds his teeth. Then he stands back, looking very pleased with himself, hands on his hips. It occurs to Sherlock that there is a distinct possibility the gay persona wasn't invented just to put him off the trail at Barts.  
  
"Are you quite finished?" asks John Watson's quiet voice from somewhere to Sherlock's left.   
  
"No," says Moriarty, gleefully. Something happens to Sherlock then. He feels like his stomach has dropped out, as if for a moment gravity has let him loose. He knows this is only panic. And that's the problem. Sherlock Holmes doesn't panic. "You didn't kiss me. I had to kiss you. I hate having to do all the work. You still owe me a favor."  
  
"Owe you?"  
  
"For not shooting your friend, remember? Anyway, on your knees." This time, there is a tone change: a sudden shift to commanding, the tone of someone used to giving orders. Sherlock sinks to his knees almost instinctively, even before it becomes crushingly obvious to him what he's going to be asked to do. But why? Why would Moriarty want to do this? When he could do anything else, things more humiliating, things more scarring, things that would really, truly get under Sherlock's skin (and there are things that do, and he is certain that Moriarty knows them, because he has already done several, including but not limited to: getting bystanders in the way to make Sherlock look like he doesn't care for what happens to innocents, requiring Sherlock to collaborate with the police, changing the rules, refusing to stick with an accent, and threatening John).  
  
Moriarty unbuttons his trousers. He eyes them carefully, probably considering the cost of the damage they are about to incur. His gaze shifts back to Sherlock, and he regards Sherlock with the air of one who is expecting something, almost the way a cat watches the darkness and the dust, knowing with its preternatural senses that its quarry is about to dart into its vision. He pulls down his underwear and reaches for Sherlock's face again, to cup Sherlock's cheek in his hand.  
  
Moriarty is  _attracted_  to him.  
  
With those small, cold hands, Moriarty strokes his cock to attention. It rises stiff and red from a small patch of light brown hair, foreskin sliding back. Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut, cold horror starting to creep upon the back of his brain.   
  
"John," says Moriarty, his voice like satin, "Is this what it's like when he sucks your cock?"  
  
Don't say anything, John, Sherlock silently pleads. John doesn't.   
  
"Does he blush like this?" Moriarty asks, running his finger over Sherlock's cheeks. "Oh Sherlock, Sherlock, just what can you do with that mouth?"  
  
Moriarty presses his pelvis in toward Sherlock's face and Sherlock parts his lips to let Moriarty's thick erection past, inclines his head just a few degrees so Moriarty's hands can slip into his hair and his fingers can rub Sherlock's scalp. John, he thinks, John, I'm sorry. Hands clutching Sherlock's head for balance, Moriarty thrusts his hips into Sherlock's mouth.  
  
"Do be careful with those teeth," he says. Sherlock dutifully covers his teeth with his lips. He looks behind Moriarty, watches the play of light on the surface of the swimming pool. He looks over to John, who stands stoic, the red point of laser light still burning on his chest. Fluid leaks from Moriarty's slit onto Sherlock's tongue; he pretends not to taste it. Moriarty withdraws one hand from Sherlock's hair and Sherlock can't help but follow its path back between Moriarty's legs; he's gently cupping his testicles, pleasuring himself while Sherlock pleasures him.  
  
Sherlock shuts his eyes again.  
  
The next minutes pass by like an eternity, Moriarty's cock sliding back and forth between Sherlock's lips and animalistic noises emanating from the man's body. Sherlock is only an empty shell, a motionless, tacit doll, a toy for Moriarty to play with. Which, he reflects, is all he's been since he came to Baker Street.  
  
Moriarty draws back, a thread of saliva from the head of his cock to Sherlock's lip glinting for one brief second in the fluorescent light and then snapping. He kneels, frowning when his knees touch the dirty floor but shaking off the expression. He presses his hands forward, onto Sherlock's chest, and then down between his legs, feeling at his groin. Sherlock feels only disgust; he stays flaccid. Moriarty's hands roam over his thighs, then back up to his neck, fingers pushing down into his collar and loosening it. His eyes close, his face looking for all the world like he has just tasted an expensive wine, left half a century to age and finding its destiny between his lips. It's almost beautiful.  
  
Moriarty kisses Sherlock again, and this time Sherlock kisses back.  
  
"Oh my," says Moriarty when they pull apart, his eyebrows raised in an expression of mock surprise. Moriarty gets to his feet and Sherlock clutches at his knees, crushing his mouth down over Moriarty's cock and licking eagerly at the head. Fingers stroke at the skin behind Sherlock's ears. He takes Moriarty deep into his mouth, to where he almost chokes. Then he draws back, his hands sliding up Moriarty's thighs, sucking at the head of Moriarty's cock, tongue finding the big vein running through the shaft. And Moriarty comes, saying "Oh, Sherlock," with a tone of encouragement and pride, semen dripping down into Sherlock's mouth and Sherlock swallows it all, swallows until Moriarty is dry and empty and limp.  
  
"Oh," says Moriarty, doing up his now-dirty trousers. "I love this game. We should play again sometime. Whenever you like."  
  
He ducks out of the room, but the laser sight centered on John shines straight and true. He'll be back. His game is not over.  
  
"Sherlock," says John, the first time he's spoken since that first kiss Moriarty forced on Sherlock.  
  
"John," says Sherlock, and he hopes it conveys everything.


End file.
